My skin brushing against leather. A door closed. Acceleration. An abrupt stop, and my head hitting something, but everything felt wrapped in cotton. Tape ripped away from my cheek. The sock pulled from my mouth.

Acute stinging up my nose, and burning in my brain like dumping rubbing alcohol on a paper cut. I writhed, smashing my head against the window. That, I felt.

“Stop screaming,” a voice said, “you’re going to be OK.”

I had been warm and floating one second, then falling hard and cold, into the passenger seat of a car, everything sharp and uncomfortable. My arm muscles were on fire, and blood dripped into my eye. I turned to see who was driving and screamed.

Scab along his forehead. Those sly eyes. Brandon Paulson.

He pressed a button on his side door, and the locks clicked. With my hands bound behind my back, I couldn’t have opened it anyway.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, driving away from the house. “I gave you Narcan to counter the overdose. You’re going to feel a little crazy, your teeth will chatter, but that will fade. Trevor called me. I am bringing you to him, swear to God.”

“Untie my wrists,” I yelled.

“I will. I will. I want to get away from them first.”

“Untie my wrists,” I shouted. “Untie my wrists. Untie my fucking wrists.” Over and over until he slammed on the brakes and swerved. He turned to me, fury in his eyes, his jaw coiled. Like he wanted to kill me. He punched the glove compartment. It popped open, and its contents spilled onto the floor.

“You’re being a fucking bitch.” He went to reach down between my legs, stopped, and said, “If you kick me, I swear to God I will drive you back and drop you on their doorstep. I’m reaching for scissors.”

He grabbed the scissors. “Lean forward.”

He cut my wrist, and I hollered, but then my hands were free.

He dropped the scissors and shoved his foot on the gas. He drove fast, checking his rearview.

“Why did you threaten me?” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You came to my house—”

“Looking for Trevor,” he said as if I were overreacting.

I grabbed the scissors and cut through the duct tape holding my ankles. “Why? Why did you meet Trevor?” I kept the scissors on my lap.

He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the dashboard and slipped them on. He checked his rearview. “I got into some financial trouble with, well, I had a few debts. Milwaukee meatheads hassling me. I can’t stand to ask my mom.” He exhaled. “Trevor saved my ass, so you know, timing-wise, I got lucky. I ran into him about a month ago at Shawnee’s. I knew if I could get you here, I could force his hand.”

If I could get you here…